Evening, Morning
by alcyonejonquil
Summary: Being the warrior of prophecy must have its perks, though they're so insignificant, Clelia Orsino doesn't even care to acknowledge them. And when the old life she's run away from comes a-knocking, she can't think only of herself. This time, she's got a family that needs protecting. (Part 7 of "How You Appear")
1. Chapter 1

**The story picks up right where "Penance" left off, only with a switch in POV character.**

**It's complete (thank God!) and it would never have become so without the help of the incredible _Quillweave_**** and _AcidKraken_, whose advice and relentless support are the greatest sources of comfort and motivation a writer could ever ask for. And don't get me started on all the inspiration I've gained from their work - if you're an Oblivion or Fallout fan, respectively, I strongly suggest checking out what they do. I don't believe you'll regret it.**

* * *

Go to sleep.

Please.

For the love of Mara, go to sleep. The dreams won't be waiting for you this time. He's said _never again_.

More rustling, the musty scent and the short hairs coming loose off the worn pelts wafting up to her face, tickling her nose.

She thinks she can feel a hair—_something_ stuck to the back of her throat, is almost scared to breathe or swallow lest she intensifies the sensation and makes herself sick.

You've got nothing in your throat, stupid girl, not now, not all those other times you thought you had. It's just your mind, inventing things that aren't there.

So tired.

If you could just fall asleep, it would all go away, and everything will be back to normal in the morning.

...that maniac's not planning to keep his word. Surely not. The only way she'll ever be rid of him is by dying—_no, no,_ she corrects herself with a grimace, quite the opposite, in fact. Dying is when the unknown starts, most likely, when he'll at last gain some measure of power over her.

Divines have mercy on her soul.

Then again, should she not try? ("_Try,_" she says. Deign to give in to basic human biology, why don't you, Clelia?) Who's to say he won't leave her alone? She's seldom heard a more miserable vow than the one she's wrenched from his lips today.

Maybe her nights will be tranquil once more. Or as tranquil as possible, given the circumstances.

If only you would stop this bloody fidgeting!

It must give him such satisfaction, seeing her like this because of him. Oh, he _would_ be watching, she's gathered as much. He's bound to pose as some sort of guardian spirit, always tailing her from the shadows, _caring__—_she could not repress the shudder that's torn through her then, at that word echoing off the walls of his Inner Sanctum—biding his time…

Until what? Until he would have her? In what way, precisely? Until he is able to get as close as he wants?

_Allow me. Indulge me._

Shimmering gold, kneeling before her in supplication.

_If I yearn for you so, if I cannot rest, it is your own doing, not mine._

_Will you find it in yourself to spare a kind thought to the one you've damned?_

Head raised, mask absent—a man like any other.

_...can I...may I _feel_ you? May I try? Just this once, a moment for an eternity. One touch; you are so near…_

Her eyelids are screwed shut to the point where she begins to see bright spots behind them, and still the memory will not abate.

_I have seen your heart. Have pity._

Ha_._

Had he truly seen her heart, he would have realised the inanity of his demand and not bothered with it.

After she lets him know, in no uncertain terms, where they stand with one another, and that he's been hurting her, slowly and obstinately, night after night, he stands and hovers for a few beats more, fists curled at his sides.

_You will leave me be_, she says. _Do you swear it?_

_I do._

Two words like two stabs of a knife.

_Never again._

She wouldn't be crying, in all probability, were the ghost's expression not brimming with things so familiar. Were she not able to relate.

There it is; the solution to her predicament, no matter how determined she may be to skirt around it. The calm only Erandur could offer. Should she let herself dwell on his voice, on the warmth that seems to radiate from him—

—and how can anyone ascertain whether that's the power of his Goddess, seeping into Mundus that way, or whether it's his very nature, and it would be, with his eyes glowing as they do, embers in the darkness—

She would get her rest. She always does, even when all else fails.

And she needs that rest so badly. _Control_, yes, she's aware, control, _self_-_discipline_, but would giving in truly be a sign of weakness? Besides, can she not afford to be weak for now?

(What number of "for nows" are we on, hm? Just within the last month or so? Have we, by chance, gone over two dozen?...)

Doesn't matter, doesn't matter.

He's in the house on the other side of the village, sleeping—meditating?

But he's _not_, he's right here, next to her, and his arms are wonderful, and his fingers are running through her hair, softly, as they did the other day in Raven Rock, more softly than that still, and she can burrow into him and keep him here, keep_…_

* * *

She is not sure, when at last the midday sun and the noise coming from the window wrestle her awake, which of the two men has ended up wandering into her dreams last night; or, indeed, if she's dreamed of anything at all. She does not remember.


	2. Chapter 2

All of these people seem to believe themselves indebted to her, she ponders, while ambling through the frigid air towards the Shaman's hut, munching on a piece of horker jerky. And praise be the Eight for it, otherwise...whom would she have turned to, who else would have been so gracious to shelter them at the drop of a hat, both her and her—

Family.

Well, of course the lovebirds have been up for hours already, taking in the sights and picking berries. That's her sister's silver-embroidered cape, right there in the clearing beyond the edge of the village, and there can certainly be no one, from here to Winterhold, as tall as the figure currently looming over her, gesturing towards something further ahead, between the trees.

Though she answers Lilly's concerned hail with an assuaging raise of her hand, any flicker of a hopeful mood is decisively quenched as she steps inside and meets Frea's hard stare.

What were you waiting for? A hug and kisses on both cheeks?

For all you wrenched their people from Miraak's snare, you were also the one to bring that monstrous Black Book here. In this woman's eyes, you might as well have stabbed the Skaal leader through the chest yourself.

But we're so alike. The same age. Forced to be responsible for a people we've been born and bred to serve, even if we're too inexperienced to even consider what the best course of action would be. And she lacks a father.

That _you've_ killed. Indirectly, but killed nonetheless.

Isn't that a good thing to have in common with someone?

"Shaman."

"Dragonborn."

They stand like that, peering at each other for a few seconds more, Clea's stomach seemingly on an upward trajectory towards her mouth.

Scrutiny in Frea's eyes, and then, an olive branch. Her features soften as she nods towards the empty wooden chairs in the corner.

"How are you, Clelia?" she asks when they're both seated. "Your friends told me you might be joining them here, yet you had us in quite a stir when you came running from the forest. I thought we had another attack on our hands."

"I am so sorry. Regardless of any personal issues, my behaviour was inexcusable. Giving the four of us permission to stay here, even so, is a kindness we will not forget."

"Our doors are always open to the Hero and those dear to her," says the young woman with an air of finality. "That reminds me: the Dark Elf, Mara's priest, came by while you were sleeping. He told me a few most gripping tales—charming mer, though a heavy spirit the likes of which I've never met before."

"Erandur is someone...I care much about. He's been nothing but a blessing to us, and we can only hope to ever be able to repay him."

Frea hums gravely, with a slight incline of her head.

"Why do I get the feeling that's not altogether true?"

_Don't_. The last thing I have right now is the patience to deal with that sort of a discussion.

"In any case, before you leave, if you could please tell him I'd welcome his visit again? I wish for us to speak more of his Lady Mara, it's been a while since a member of your clergy has braved the wilderness around these parts."

"Oh, we shan't bother you for too much longer," Clea says, starting to get up. "We'll go as soon as we've packed."

"I'm not sure that is wise," Frea says with a frown. "Have you had enough rest? There have been a lot more werebear and werewolf sightings lately. I know at least two of you are worthy fighters, but..."

"All of us are, trust me. We'll be fine. Besides, why not get a move on while the weather holds up?"

The weather, as she should have foreseen from the moment she's uttered those words out loud, would not hold up. By the time she slides the key into the lock and shoves the front door of the manor open with a bang, they have been nearly swimming in mud all day, covered head to toe in the freezing rain.

No bites to scramble and heal, lycanthrope or otherwise, fortunately. There have been several pairs of yellow eyes sizing them up from the shadows when they made camp, but the beasts ended up thinking better of it.

Clever bastards. At least they didn't have a death wish.

The same cannot be said for a certain Altmer who's currently striding in, flinging his soggy cloak over the closest armchair; which just happens to also be the most expensive one they own.

"Ancano, not...on the carpet," she says, voice getting smaller, already picturing the work it will take to remove all the stains.

She cannot suppress the aggravated sigh that rises from the depth of her soul.

"If you're going to insist on damaging my house, I fully expect you to help with the mending, as well!"

"Oh?" comes his shrill reply. "And since when is it _your_ house? I seem to recall Councillor Morvayn mentioning the three of us in his—"

"Must I remind you how much your contribution to the Temple fight truly amounted to? Must I, really?"

"For goodness' sake," mutters Lilly, and she's suddenly struck with a pang of guilt. "Erandur, please, light the hearth while I get the meat ready, I'm famished."

Something's wrong, she surmises, watching a previously inseparable couple sit on opposite sides of the room. They've both been testy the whole trip back, testier than normal, anyway; it's not merely the rain making them miserable, it has to be more than that.

She chances a glance in Erandur's direction, stealthily trying to convey her worry, and is met with a reassuring grin that makes her stupid heart stutter—oh Gods, and you thought after spending all this time with him you would get used to it, but he's caught you unawares, as usual—you're exhausted, that's no excuse, wipe that dreamy look off your damned face—

"_Later_," he mouths at her, and immediately turns to ask Ancano about some philosophy book he'd been meaning to borrow.

That "later" comes the following morning, when she finds herself startled awake by nearby hurried whispers.

And if the relative obscurity that meets her bleary eyes is any indication, it's scarcely past dawn, as well. She really ought to get back to sleep (with the dreams gone, it's become such blissful oblivion once again!). Whatever are these people doing, being up so early?!

She strains to hear and, aha, that would be the sound of long-overdue sentimental advice, all right. Even so, she shouldn't mock, Lilly seems genuinely distraught—good thing that _husband_ of hers sleeps like a sack of potatoes, or else she'd never have gotten the opportunity to ask for help and receive it before…

Before the helper got on the boat and went on his merry way.

In spite of all her pleas, he's proven adamant about leaving as soon as possible. Something-something _obligation_ and _shrine_ and "_you can write to me any time, all of you_"—yes, how she would have loved to not be able to see right through that.

He's undoubtedly just as able to see through her meagre attempts at dissimulation, and all of this is essentially turning into a cheap Breton comedy, is it not? It's pathetic, if it were about anyone other than her and Erandur, she would have laughed her head off and called it a day.

_What you need, girl,_ she can almost hear Father say, in that unyielding tone he's only ever used with her, _is to train. Fight. You're getting lazy, complacent; the lack of preoccupation is allowing your mind to turn into a whirlwind that will spin and spin and spin so that you'll never manage to escape it._

_Nothing a little bit of old-fashioned physical exertion won't solve, however. You go fetch your equipment and join the others in the yard, and if I hear you've lost a single sparring match today, you'll be scaling that rock face you're so _very _fond of up to the top from now on, not just halfway. Understood?_

She isn't sure when her lips have twisted into this tremulous caricature of a smile, but she can hardly tell them what to do at the moment.

_Yes, Captain._


	3. Chapter 3

Well, she muses, frowning at the two men in front of her, talk about coincidences, indeed.

She swears it must be her father who's at fault, hounding her from the spirit realm—and if that were the case, he'd better get into a cocking line. After Miraak, of course, Hermaeus Mora in tow, but also Meridia and Malacath and whoever else she might be omitting.

(Oh, and Akatosh, obviously. The source of all this nonsense. Who could forget about Akatosh?)

And just when she's finally begun to feel at ease!

At first, she'd needed a few days to nurse herself back to a relatively stable mental state after biding farewell to her...to her _friend,_ there, on the pier. Torn between the sheer delight of having had him near, and the sensation of being flayed, piece by tiny little piece, at his departure.

"Help Lilly as far as you can, please, Clea," he'd said, taking her hand and giving it a warm squeeze. "Make her open up to you, too. It's so difficult, what she's striving to achieve. She's in quite a bit of turmoil still."

Unlike those present, right?

She'd watched the Northern Maiden fade into the mist until there was nothing left to see, hugging herself to better preserve the phantom feeling of his final embrace. Then, with a sharp inhale, she'd turned on her heels and went home.

She'd hoped home would be quiet, so she could sink into her bed and forget everything for a few hours. Wishful thinking, that.

"...me understand. What business is it of his?"

Voice equal, not the slightest bit raised—he'd never demean himself so—but no less pointed and full of apprehension.

"This is what he does! I went to him because my sister trusts him with her life, as do I, and he's never done anything to betray that trust."

Yet more agitated pacing from downstairs, followed by a hushed, tearful statement that was nonetheless remarkable in its firmness.

"I only did what I assumed was best."

A pause.

"Oh, Lilly..."

A rustle of robes, a gasp, the unmistakable noise of books tumbling to the floor, then the door to their room being slammed shut so loudly, it made her wince.

_Honestly_.

What did she say about damaging the house, again?

On account of any notion of peace and quiet having flown straight out the window, she resolved to sit outside, propped against a cold stone wall.

"See, my dear disciple of Love?" she'd sent a tired thought towards the sea. "They'd figure it out by themselves. Hopefully."

Clea took the old training dummies out of the storeroom the next day.

And they're _really_ old training dummies, if their present owner, as out of shape as she is, has managed to completely wreck them in little more than a week. That's exactly what she's just gone to the general trader for, this morning. Ordering new materials for combat practice.

The irony is not lost on her.

A fantastic idea, it seemed, to take advantage of the balmy weather and run some more errands. Turning her attention to the shore as she's slowly begun the trek back home, she's admired the way the light glinted off the waves, the red and gold providing a striking contrast—

Wait. Red and gold? On a boat?

A dragon.

A _rhomboid_ Dragon.

Painted on the sails, and on the wood.

No.

No, it's just a merchant ship.

_Does that look like a merchant ship to you?_

Or an envoy for Lleril Morvayn. Wouldn't be unheard of.

Or...or maybe the East Empire Company has fallen on hard times and demands official protection these days. Pirates aplenty on the seas...

"No, calm down," she chastises herself, ignoring the sudden dampness of her palms. "It can't be."

Her legs don't appear to care about what _can_ or _can't_ be, however, since they carry her faster and faster on the path up to the manor, and by the time she bursts inside, she can hear the roar of blood in her ears.

"Lilly!"

"Down here, Clea," comes the reply—too cool, makes her hair stand on edge.

They're in the kitchen. One person she's familiar with, two she is not.

"I was telling the officers about the marvellous temperatures we've been blessed with these last few days. Your walk was pleasant enough, I hope."

Brave companion, holding a towel in a death grip to quell your trembling!

The men are openly eyeballing her. One even younger than herself, the other much, much older.

A quick survey of their insignia. These are no officers; ordinary soldiers, like she used to be.

"Praefect Orsino," says the old one with a chilly nod.

She returns it instinctively, mind already racing.

Ancano's vanished, thank all the Divines. Without a trace. He must be invisible in a corner somewhere, but they don't appear to be at all magically-inclined, they'd in no way be capable of uncovering him.

She's prepared for this, damn it.

Precisely for this eventuality, they never leave three of the same object laying around the house. Just two mugs, two sets of cutlery, two pairs of small leather slippers. Everything her brother-in-law uses is neatly returned to a cupboard after he's done with it. It's become routine. Sweet, strong-smelling perfumes applied in his and Lilly's bedroom, their sheets changed and cleaned scrupulously every morning (or as often as the need arises); who can say if or when the Thalmor will come and turn the house upside down looking for their deserter? All men's clothing sits at the very bottom of the drawers, his papers and amulets in a strongbox buried in the garden.

Let them search from now 'till Evening Star, Clea smiles to herself. They won't find anything suspicious.

Then again…

"Welcome," she says mildly, putting her basket down on a chair. "What is the purpose of this unexpected visit? I thought for sure we'd have been notified in writing beforehand—we might have been away today."

"We would have waited for as long as was necessary," the other stiffly recites. "The notice was to be delivered to you personally. And all of us are expected to embark for Solitude as soon as possible."

It's like they've been sent by her father to torment her, to destroy everything. Perhaps they have been.

She blinks, once, twice, then takes the immaculate envelope out of the soldier's grasp and wrenches the seal open.

That handwriting. She'd recognise it anywhere, she's seen snippets of it on Father's desk so many times.

_...unforeseen state of affairs..._

_...requires the immediate assistance of one Clelia Orsino, Praefect of the Imperial Legion, also known as Ysmir Dragon-of-the-North, as well as…_

All the air is punched out of her lungs.

_...as well as that of the sorceress called Illia..._

Son of a—

He's as good as dead.

_...travel to the Headquarters at Castle Dour under military escort, by the order of His Majesty the Emperor, where they will await further briefing._

_Gen. Tullius._

Relax your features. Come on. You're not new to this.

When she raises her head, she's (she certainly prays she is) the very picture of polite bewilderment.

"I have but one observation to make," she begins. "I fail to perceive under what obligation my friend here would be to obey orders from the General, seeing as she's never fulfilled any military role? Has never pledged to serve, as it were?"

A heavy breath from the grizzled one, something to the effect of "Ah, there we go."

"These are...exceptional circumstances, milady, and your friend's direct involvement in solving the Dragon Crisis—in all of your achievements, in fact—is a matter of public record. The missive is clear. You are both to come."

"Not good enough, I'm afraid."

"You can impart all objections to the General himself," he says with a dismissive gesture, turning to face a wide-eyed Lilly instead.

"Truthfully, no loyal citizen of the Empire would dream of turning down such a unique opportunity to help its cause. You _would_ consider yourself a loyal citizen of the Empire, miss?"

"Y-yes, of course," she replies with a hint of shock. "Always."

"Then I don't see what all the fuss is about." He gives a satisfied smirk. "You have what's left of today to prepare, finish any business you may have left here. We leave at sunrise."

The young recruit takes a tentative step towards the stairs.

"Oh, and," he says with a critical squint, "full combat gear is expected, naturally. Good day."

Neither of them dares move a muscle until they hear the front door close.


	4. Chapter 4

A flurry of light.

"You are going nowhere_._"

Ancano stalks from the other side of the room, taking Lilly by the shoulders while she leans into him with a shaky exhale.

"She has to," Clea says, sitting down and throwing the letter on the table in his direction. "I have to take her with me. Direct orders from the Emperor, disobeying would be high treason."

"What?!" he forces out, his gaze rising over the top of the girl's head. "You are the godsdamned Dragonborn, one of the most powerful beings in existence—how does the Emperor command you to do anything? You could level them all in an instant, turn them into..."

"I swore an oath!" she exclaims hoarsely, feeling all the blood rush back to her face, making her skin prickle. "To him, to the country. It's what I've been taught my entire life; not being on the front lines is one thing, but how could I, how..."

So, running away from any involvement in the past year has been...somehow in line with the terms of your pledge? You've heard a lot of arguments with holes in them, but this one takes the cake: it has one bigger hole in it that engulfs it entirely.

"I could," he replies, his tone black, corroding ice. "I _have_. Sworn many oaths, the contents of which you cannot even fathom. What value do they hold now?"

He steps closer to her, despite his wife's arms holding him back.

"You do not get to lord this over me. Might have made such an angle work before, but not with another traitor." He sneers. "Bad luck on your part."

"Darling, listen!" Lilly interjects, laying a stern palm on his cheek and turning him to face her. "They're here, they've got us cornered. Where could we hide? They'd find us, take me and Clea away, and...and they'd kill you if you tried to defend us. You know they would."

"Yes, Ancano," she eggs him on, an outlet for the rage and helplessness threatening to choke her, "we are already in the most remote place we could think of. Where do you suggest we escape to? Atmora?"

At the same time, she goes through all of the townsfolk in her mind. Who was the little weasel who's ratted them out? The blacksmith, that oily Mallory fellow? Mogrul the Orc, who would do anything for a bag of coin? The Councillor himself, hoping to gain further indulgence from the Empire he so admires—and he's promised them a safe stay, the utter git!

"There's no need for concern," Lilly is saying, "I won't be alone, I'll be with Cl—"

"How small is the ship?" the Altmer tersely interrupts, gaze fixed on the wall.

"Very," says Clea. "I see what you're thinking, but it's small enough they'll absolutely notice a stowaway."

He shuts his eyes, jaw clenched.

"Well, then, what time is it?" her sister's lilt breaks the momentary silence. "Almost noon?... We need to be quick."

Dress swishing after her as she runs to the hallway, takes a satchel from its hanger, then returns and begins to search wildly around the room, finally settling on one of the tall cupboards.

"Lilly, what..."

"The Maiden," she says, throwing the doors open and fishing out the dry food she's prepared for emergencies. "You'll sneak onto it—carefully, they'll be sure to keep an eye out, their boat's _right_ _there_—then travel to Solitude by land. You might be able to arrive before we're sent away to the front."

She stops and looks determinedly between the two of them.

"If either of you has a better idea, please share it now."

Ancano swallows.

"No," he says, "no, that's an adequate strategy."

She gives him a tight smile, then bows her head and starts pulling on the knapsack's bindings.

Dear Gods.

"It's all right, I've got it," Clea murmurs, moving to kneel on the floor next to her and shooting her a "go say farewell properly, you numpty_"_ sort of look.

Less than half an hour later, they walk to the threshold, fussing over him like two mother hens:

"Make sure the captain's below deck before you go pay, don't reveal yourself where the soldiers could spot you; and, for the love of Mara, steer clear of the other passengers, if you can!"

"You act as though I'd never done this before, love," he grins at Lilly, holding her palms joined over his chest.

"Prudence when you reach Solitude," she just as needlessly feels the urge to warn, taking a pouch filled to the brim with gold and making to put it in his bag. "It'll be crawling with informants."

"Clelia, I dare say I've been to the capital more than you... Sorry, what do you think you are doing?"

"You'll need a good horse to get there in time. Horses are expensive."

His eyes dart to hers, and by the flare of his nostrils, he's not exactly thrilled by the idea. He likely hasn't got fifty Septims to his name, however, and she really doesn't have the patience to argue with him further.

"You'll pay me back later, if you must. We've got more than we'll ever be able to spend, anyway. What else do you propose?"

We're a blasted family now, for better or worse, it belongs to all of us, is the part she chooses to leave out.

"As soon as I've gained access to my savings in Alinor..."

"Yes, yes, now go." She cracks the door open. "They'll be setting sail any minute."

With a last nod in her direction and a brisk kiss to his wife's forehead, he stands up straighter and…

Is no more.

Like he had never been there in the first place.

The door shuts quietly behind him.

A shiver runs through Clea's spine. Never enjoyed it—gives her the jitters, when they up and disappear like that. Both friends and foes, as it turns out.

She snaps out of it at the sound of a despondent sigh.

She ends up having to steer the girl towards the chairs by the fire.

"Don't do that, Lill, come on, we need to prepare, plenty of garbage to contend with yet!"

Trying to be as gentle as humanly possible, she takes hold of her ashen face.

"My sister's not a weepy lass going to pieces at the absence of her sweetheart, is she now?"

Oh, the hypocrisy.

"Without hands," a whisper from smiling lips.

Sorry?

"Casting without hands; he's been practising," she clarifies, expression slightly, _slightly_ troubling. Which, in all fairness, is to be expected.

As to what that could mean, and why it's so important, only Akatosh can say. Or Julianos. She, for one, has never understood mages, and has long ago decided it would be neither fruitful nor beneficial to her sanity to even attempt it.


	5. Chapter 5

"What will they have me do, d'you think?"

Clea looks up from the shirt she's been sewing new buttons on and peers at her: curled on her little cot in the corner, resting against the rough bark of the cabin wall, fingers playing with a tiny bundle of lightning.

There are the lines again. Those fine, spindly ones around her mouth and spanning her brow. They have absolutely no business being there, marring the complexion of someone her age. Had nearly gone away since—since the elf. Now they're back, and it's disconcerting, how much they change her, from thriving young woman to witch of the woods.

How much she resembles her shrew of a mother.

Confound it all.

She's talking, at least. That's a relief. She's barely acknowledged her presence in the time they've been at sea for. If she's not dozing off or sifting absently through her books, she's on deck, gawking at the night sky or leaning overboard each time a sliver of land appears in the distance.

That last distraction is nothing but a surefire way to drive oneself bonkers. Still, she cannot deny the allure, given she herself has been drawing a mental map of their journey, fantasizing about getting a glimpse of Nightcaller Temple around...tomorrow or the day after, approximately. (Would they even pass that close to the shore? Would it even be visible, perched high on that hilltop?)

Ah. Tell the girl who's, in the blink of an eye, lost a freedom so hard-earned, what is going to happen to her. Correct.

She has to clear her throat before responding, and even then, her voice is far scratchier than it's wont to be.

"First, swear undying loyalty and obedience to the Emperor and your superiors." She cringes at her own bitterness, yet cannot bring herself to care. "That's the prerequisite, you understand. After that, it's whatever they need you for. You'll get fitted for standard-issue robes, most likely. Some training, if there's time, but it seems they're in a bit of a hurry."

Lowering her head, she lets a corner of her lips lift in a sort of strange, fake-cheerful grimace.

"Maybe you'll even be given a staff of your own, which should be interesting."

"Really? I've never held one, always wondered what they felt like."

Leave it to Lilly to show the first inkling of excitement in a while at the mere mention of new arcane techniques.

She senses her dismay immediately.

"Forgive me. I realise how much you hate," she motions vaguely with her head, "this."

Never one to let any of her perceived slights go without making amends, Lilly. All the more when it isn't her fault, when no one would even consider belittling her.

"It's not that bad," she relents. "It's ordered. Predictable. You're by no means immune to unpleasantness, of course, but, in general, you keep your mouth shut and do as you're told, you're fine."

They sit for a few minutes, each a prisoner of her own mind, the rare creaking of the ship's joints the only disturbance.

"Should try and dissuade them, in any event," she resumes. "A world of good would that do, but at least I'd not bow and accept it like a common rookie."

She's been taking stock of her options, during all those hours when even the gentle rocking of the boat hasn't been able to put her to sleep. As welcome a time as any to voice her thoughts, she's always preferred to examine things out loud, and, besides, haven't their plans always been a collective effort?

"Legate Rikke. Reasonable woman, and she likes us—probably because she's happy I haven't held a grudge after I came _this_ close to being killed at Helgen, on her and Tullius' watch. Our best bet, by far."

She lays the shirt down on the bedding, bringing a hand to her aching temple.

"As for the man himself...no clue. The 'notice' didn't reveal a lot, I'll just have to see what he's cooked up and take it from there."

"You said he and your father have...history. And that's why he's been so huffy towards us at the peace talks."

"Huffy? That's one way of describing it." She makes a face. "But yes, there's been tension between them for as long as I can remember. So many letters. Exactly what they were arguing about is anyone's guess."

The light's been dwindling for a while, and she begrudgingly gets up to refill the lantern on the table.

"You...you don't think they, you know..."

"Hmm?"

She almost drops the new candle on the floor.

"_Gods_, no. W-well, I certainly hope not!"

They were, admittedly, part of the same garrison for quite a few years...

"That's a fascinating image of Father now burned into my brain, then. I mean, that would have been great for him and all, but, Oblivion, would it make speaking to the General an even more delicate matter! No. I will wonder about it no longer. And _you_," she points in the direction of her cabinmate, "have been reading entirely too much nonsense."

"I have _not_!" she cries out, and, despite the aura of sadness still clinging to her, she's suddenly twenty-four again, and it's glorious.

"Shush, there are people right above us!" she cautions, shoulders shaking with laughter. "And you have, as well! Ten gold says you've been tucking away one or two steamy stories among all those spell tomes and treatises you keep carrying around. Actually..."

This is what agility training's really for, she thinks, putting down what she was holding, then darting so fast towards the book laying open on Lilly's bed, _there isn't anything her sister's able to do about it_, _ha_.

"Careful with it, you madwoman!" the girl shrieks, lunging after her. "Do you have any idea how rare that one is?!"

She shrugs her off with one arm, cackling and examining the cover.

"_Mass Paralysis_? Brr, awful. On second thought, take it back, I don't want that anywhere near me."

"See? Told you," she says, plucking it gingerly from her hand and hiding it under the pillow.

"All right, fair enough."

Ignoring the way the rickety cot seems to barely hold both their weights, she sits down, taking Lilly's hand and gently lacing their fingers together.

Lulls her into a false sense of security, then strikes again.

"It must be Ancano, then, the devil. ("What? No, no, no, I don't want to hear it—"). Unbelievable, how an impromptu marriage corrupts even the most sheltered!"

She's turned a ridiculous shade of pink, and there's nothing of that repulsive hag left in her, _nothing_.

"It could be argued living for hundreds of years gives one ample opportunity to delight in—"

"Argh, you little..."

She fails to spot the snowball conjured out of thin air and headed directly towards her face; and the jolt, even despite the half-hearted blow, manages to propel the back of her skull straight into the wall.

"Clea, I'm so sorry! Didn't mean to hurt you!"

"It's fine," she says with a splutter, cradling the new injury and waiting for the ringing in her ears to cease. "It was hurting anyway, now it's the whole thing, not just the front."

"You provoked me! Turn around, let me see."

"No need, it'll pass in a moment."

"I won't attempt to heal it," Lilly says after a long pause, "don't worry, I'm aware you don't want me to."

Poor thing, aiming to help and being forever denied. Not her fault that the Dragonborn of legend finds the touch of even the simplest spell unbearable.

It's some time later, as they're getting ready for bed, she's met with an abrupt, hesitant question that makes something underneath her ribs give a sudden lurch:

"They wouldn't...separate us, would they?"

She purses her lips.

"They're welcome to suggest something like that, as long as the person who does has gotten tired of having a head on their shoulders."

That brings forth a very unladylike snort from the girl perched on the edge of her bunk, legs dangling slowly backwards and forwards.

"It's," Lilly resumes agitatedly, "it's been noted we're a team, the Quaestor said as much. We'd be far less effective, each of us on her own, and they must strive towards peak effectiveness, right?"

"Yes, and we will be together, no matter what." She allows an edge of hilarity to seep into her tone. "I'm sorry to say, miss, but you appear to be stuck in my objectionable company for the time being."

"_Mildly_ objectionable, to be honest," Lilly teases—and praise be Mara, a thousand times over, for the way this evening's turned out.

The cabin's dark and they've been silent for a while by the time a soft murmur interrupts Clea's frantic musings.

"You're probably right to avoid my healing an'all. They'd better be stocked up on people like Erandur in the Legion, because I, for one, am terrible at Restoration."

A slow exhale.

"A staff or an enchanted weapon, I can work with. But to be a healer, oh, please, no. Remind me to tell them that, will you?"

I will, dear. Although you wouldn't be entirely accurate: they'll have no way of knowing the healing you're capable of, the deep-seated one that makes up so much of who you are, and who you've always been.


	6. Chapter 6

One of the Legionaries guarding the entrance is extraordinarily handsome.

He truly, truly is.

That's a bizarre thought for you to be entertaining in this particular situation.

Well, what was I supposed to do, amble through the courtyard with my eyes closed?! He's standing right there!

He hasn't been there the last time, or she would have remembered him.

Breton, in all likelihood. Ash blonde hair, fair skin. Rather tall and lean, not stocky like most of his peers currently letting out exaggerated growls while hitting their dummies or sparring partners. Elegant features, almost weirdly delicate for a soldier.

Dark, razor-sharp eyes, sizing her up in blatant interest.

She has to restrain herself from squaring her shoulders to highlight her elaborate Nordic armour (polished so vigorously, it reflects the afternoon sun like a mirror), and if that's not the most hilarious part of the encounter, she doesn't know what is.

Should ask yourself if you're fifteen, Clea, but you didn't even behave like this back then. Now is not the best moment for _impulses_ to run amok.

Turning her head (discreetly) to try and hold on to his gaze, she meets her sister's frightened one instead. And that, if nothing else, pulls her back to reality.

She itches to give her a reassuring touch, remind her that she's safe. She can't, however. It would be interpreted as a sign of frailty. They're warriors, not terror-stricken peasant girls being brought to face their liege lord.

The shadow of a smile will have to suffice.

A kaleidoscope of red banners and winding corridors, moving past them so quickly it makes her dizzy, down, down into the bowels of the ancient castle, until they reach an antechamber and the two men who've escorted them so far stop and fall back.

Rikke, haggard and pale, surrounded by five other officers. Tension so thick, one could cut it with a knife.

The letter wasn't kidding. These people are desperate.

She echoes their customary salute and throws a glance in Lilly's direction, seeing her offer a small bow.

All right, we've done this before. So far, nothing new.

"Dragonborn," says the Legate, "I wish we could afford the exchange of pleasantries, but it is imperative that we make haste. I'll inform the General of your arrival."

He wishes to speak to her privately, first. As she thought he would. Then it would be the mage girl's turn.

By the time she's in front of his closed doors, the anger she's felt towards him has simmered down, only cold, impenetrable determination remaining. Failure is not an option now, just as it's never, ever been. She isn't going back to that life, she _isn't_.

One more steadying inhale, then her fingers are on the doorknob.

* * *

It's as if she's never left. Completely automatic, the greeting, the proper posture.

"General."

He's leaning over the war table, shoulders hunched.

"Enter, Praefect. Take a seat."

Once she's occupied one of the armchairs with as much grace as she could muster, he, at last, looks up, doing nothing to hide the severity in his gaze.

He plans on playing the "disgruntled father figure" card, it seems. Welcoming back the prodigal daughter. Sensible, if in no way surprising.

"You've not been nearly as difficult to track down as you would have liked," he begins. "You were very exposed, in that port town trading with the mainland. Relied too much on the elves' gratitude, I assume."

He straightens and approaches her, heavy sword banging on the wood when he rests his hip against the corner of the table.

"Though we would have left you alone. I want this to be perfectly clear. We even have, when the war seemed to be going in a good direction. You went to Solstheim, dealt with those folks' problems; didn't return for months. Disappeared with nary a word. And I'd not have searched for you," he stresses, glaring at her, "despite your position, despite the fact you've sworn allegiance to us. I was more than willing to overlook it, out of respect for everything you've done."

A pause, for dramatic effect, most likely.

"The Emperor was, too."

"And here you are, sending your men to essentially arrest me and my sister from our home and transport us here as if we were nothing but common criminals. Or cargo."

Ancano was right. Can't let them think they can just walk all over her whenever they feel like it. If she does, then she is lost.

He lowers his head with an exasperated groan.

"Could you please stop trying to be difficult and just listen? Oh," he mutters grimly, "who am I kidding? You're Raf's kid, being difficult is what you lot are best at."

_Raf's kid? _Well, that one she's never heard before.

"I've always said you, of all people, turning out to be the legendary hero, the saviour of Nirn, was the biggest joke fate could've thrown at me."

Condescending bastard. What does Father have to do with it? What do I? I should...

"Yet, in these circumstances, it's also nothing short of a damned miracle."

Her gaze snaps up to meet his.

"Mm, yes. Here, see for yourself."

He nods towards the map laid out before them, and she rises to her feet, deducing, from his tone, that particular order's not up for debate.

"Two more forts, fallen. Battles lost: Kynesgrove, Shor's Stone, Rorikstead. Helgen, main point of entry for troops and supplies, in shambles. No," he interrupts her before she's able to speak up, "it hasn't been rebuilt, we can't even get close to the gates. Bandits, well-organised ones, have it in a lockdown. Tensions with the Thalmor rising—due in no small measure to your untimely foray into their Embassy. Caravans raided, morale dropping every day. And, most importantly, we've lost Riften to the Stormcloaks, even after you've so graciously handed it to us at that farce of a conference."

"I was demanded fairness!" she says with consternation. "It's not my fault you weren't able to hold it. I couldn't have possibly granted you more, Ulfric and his men would have flown off the handle and we would never have reached—"

"Be that as it may," he raises his voice to cover hers, "the bottom line is we are being picked apart. Fast. The war cannot go on for much longer."

He fixes her with his dull brown eyes, and, Oblivion, she's figured it would come to this. She's been postponing it, but...

"His Majesty's concerned. We can't afford to lose Skyrim, we'd be left with only Cyrodiil and High Rock under our direct control, and the situation isn't all sunny there, either, with the Dominion breathing down our necks."

He takes a horse figurine from the table and rolls it between his fingers.

"You, however, are exactly what we need to pull through. You're a soldier with a somewhat illustrious parentage..."

_Somewhat_, is it, you absolute—

"You're young, you're pretty," he carries on flatly, "and you're a sword fighter, which makes you a lot more dependable in the eyes of the populace than a mage; no offense to your friend, of course. Do I need to spell it out? We've had this conversation before."

He draws even nearer, and his hand flexes, as if he'd like to lay it on her arm, yet changes his mind.

"We need you to champion us. The Dragonborn, a true daughter of the Legion. A symbol of our plight. You could have been that from the start, if you weren't so hell-bent on laying low, Gods forbid you'd have your precious freedom tampered with!"

"Oh—"

"Well, hear this, and get it into your mulish head once and for all," he says sharply. "You've been born with this...this _thing_ I won't pretend to understand. It's not your fault, hasn't been your decision, but it is what it is. If it's our only chance to win, we have to take it, and that means no more running away from your duty!"

Almost bellowing by the end, and she can tell the precise instant he realises it, because his expression mollifies, and he draws a long, calming breath. He seeks to appear empathetic, pleading, but doesn't quite manage to do it well enough to fool her. Must be hard, when you've had no reason to express such emotions in who-knows how long, spent your days barking orders left and right instead.

"Apologies. Come, let's sit," he gestures towards the bench next to him.

She stays perfectly upright, doesn't budge an inch. Childish, asinine show of defiance. But she can't bring herself to do anything else, her thoughts are moving a mile a minute, she has to regain control—

—they're going to make her Shout. That's the endpoint to the whole endeavour. Take position at the front of the army and...what? Blast their enemies to pieces? Set them on fire, make lightning bear down on them from the heavens? Yes. That and more, whatever strikes her fancy. Talos reincarnated. What ordinary soldier wouldn't feel his spirit soar at such a display, wouldn't be filled with the strength of a thousand men?

She's never been on a battlefield. She's taken plenty of lives, sure, when the need's arisen. But within the carnage of a real war—never. And she knows, she knows that what's chained right there, under her sternum, that alien thing she's perpetually carrying with her like a parasite, will _revel_ in it.

Paarthurnax has said as much. _We were made to dominate. _He's asked her whether she could feel it in her blood. Oh, certainly she could. How many of those ancient inscriptions have sung with the promise of power beyond her wildest dreams? Beckoned and beckoned until she's had to turn her back to them and dash in the other direction, under Lilly's alarmed gaze?

Lilly.

Sweet, earnest Lilly, surrounded not by Draugr or spiders, but people, regiments of them. Young, old, fighting for their liberty. And she'd have to murder as many of them as possible. Would she even be able to stand it? Night terrors, suffocating guilt, no, not again—

"Clelia."

She starts, blinking at the stern, sumptuously-armoured man in front of her.

Whose eyes have come alive, flooded with an emotion she can't place.

"When I first saw you, you were a baby in your nursemaid's arms. Your father brought me to you, said _there she is; my child, who will do everything I could not._"

A corner of his mouth twitches mirthlessly.

"Hadn't heard him speak in that tone before, or since."

He takes another step, and, on this attempt, his hand does find its way onto her pauldron.

"Raf blamed himself for the battles lost in the Great War more than any officer I've met. He chose to serve his homeland as a modest captain of a garrison. You do not have that luxury. You'll have to lead us. If not for the Empire's sake, then for that of his memory. Don't throw away a life's work, his efforts to prepare you, even without realising what he was preparing you for."

"All I have done has been in his memory!" she wants to scream at him. Her throat burns with that truth she's been unwilling to admit even to herself.

Deep, measured breaths. That's it. Take your time, always construct your sentences ahead of opening your mouth. To stammer is unbecoming of a Legionary.

"General," she says, "I have fulfilled every obligation that has been presented to me, as diligently as I could. I've travelled to Aetherius and returned to the land of the living. I shall also fulfill this one, following your command."

Stall for time. Then: reconsider strategy.

He peers at her, brow furrowed.

"Yes. Good, good."

He retreats, coughing lightly.

"Expect to be summoned to the War Council on the morrow. We need to act now, before the rebels catch on to what's happening. For the moment, you are dismissed. Ah," he remembers, "and tell the sorceress to come in."

She heads to the door on legs made of wool.

"Wait. About that."

She stills for a heartbeat, then turns back around.

"Yes, sir?"

"You referred to her as your sister. When there...is no way that could be true."

He sounds hesitant, as if he's trying his damnedest to convince himself of what he's declaring.

Lilly, you cunning girl. You have nowhere near as bad an intuition as you think.

"Illia was my friend, for a while. Nowadays, I consider her family. I will not have her safety placed in jeopardy, therefore. If I may request that there would be little to no difference in the way she is treated, compared to myself? With all due respect," she hurriedly adds.

"Indeed? No reason why not. Request granted, Praefect."

"Thank you, sir. Good day."

She barely manages to take on an encouraging air when she sends her sister in.

"Go on, we'll talk after. I'll check the room they've prepared for us, and wait for you there."

I got the three of us into this mess, I will get us out of it. What was that they wanted me to own up to? The soul of a dragon? Let's see if they like it when it's not acting according to their wishes.

Huh.

Let's see if I can deliver on that thought at all.


	7. Chapter 7

She's going to wear down the poor carpet even more if she doesn't stop. And it's been threadbare to begin with.

She can't rightly tell her body to stay still, though, with her brain in such a state.

The Legate's not yet shown herself available for negotiations. Scoured the castle to find her, no success.

She's instead found out they've welcomed a detachment of mages specifically to test and train their new recruit, who will be taking the oath at dawn.

And Lilly has been surprisingly amenable to the idea.

Not altogether, of course. By the time her meeting with Tullius was concluded, she was positively vibrating with impatience. After a sparse account of their discussion, she's wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and bolted. Ancano would already be waiting for her at one of the several inns in Solitude. That is, had his journey gone as expected. She refused to even entertain thoughts of the contrary—she needed him, and how could anyone blame her? So many days apart…

You don't want to go there. Find something else to occupy your mind with.

She looks dejectedly at the exquisite edition of "The Poison Song" she'd brought with her. Tried picking it up and reading a few paragraphs half an hour ago. Didn't work. Too much talk of a secret power lying dormant within one's soul, corrupting them, taking over their existence until…

And there we go again. Back to her duty, and the General, and Father, and to opening her mouth and sensing the most primal, unfathomable, delirious energy imaginable _crawl_ out of her and into the world, without a how or why or—

She contemplates curling into a ball on the floor and howling until she is hoarse. Would it, perhaps, make her feel better?

Obviously, someone picks that exact, _exact_ moment to rap their knuckles on her door.

"Yes!" she calls to them in a way that's most certainly discourteous, but she does. Not. Care. If they're miffed at that, well, they can fu—

On the threshold, colours that make her freeze for a second; then another.

Reddish brown. Yellow.

Light grey.

She cannot stop. She pounces, and the impact is so strong, it knocks the wind right out of him—she should have been more mindful, he's almost as slight of build as her, they could have toppled over—

But he's here, he's here, and she slips his hood off when she cups his narrow, beloved face in her palms, beard scratching at her skin, and she finds she's staring at his lips, wanting to kiss him so badly, she can't, but oh, how she yearns to, it's so, so unfair...

"Hello," he whispers, and she meets his eyes, ruby-red and warm like the sunset, like the blood in her veins, and just as necessary.

He wraps his arms around her, and how fortunate is it that she's decided to remove her armour and change into her tunic and leggings, she can feel everything, every point of contact—

_...feel you?... Touch you... A moment for an eternity..._

Forget him. _He_ has no business here.

"Should we maybe close the door?" comes an amused question, and she (regrettably, reluctantly) disentangles herself from him.

"You...here...how?" she asks dumbly after the latch snaps shut. "Never mind that, never mind. Erandur, they've got us trapped, they're making Lilly serve, and it will kill her, it will! And me, they're going to send me straight to the front lines, use me as a _puppet_—"

"Clea, Clea, slow down," he grips her forearms, trying to catch her gaze, act as an anchor, because that's what he always does, what he's always been to her. "It's all right, I'm with you, there's no rush. Tell me what happened, from the beginning."

Wh—now?!

"I'll tell you on the way, we need to hurry—oh, the stupid girl had to leave, hadn't she? I'll get packing, we'll have to wait until she comes back—and Ancano, Gods! We'll have to pick him up as well, hope he's fou-found a safe way out of the c-city..."

"Easy, my dear—you're hyperventilating," he refuses to relent, holding her in place, what is he _doing_?! "You'll lose consciousness, control your breathing, come on!"

She does what he asks, because, yes, she was starting to get a little light-headed, she'll give him that. Still…

"We really don't have much time, if we're to be ready to go," she mutters between gasps.

"Where is it you wish to go at this hour? I've barely arrived."

"What?"

He must be exhausted from the road. Or she must make even less sense than she realises.

"Well...Dawnstar, surely? I mean, if you know some place more secluded, that would be fine, but..."

She falters, because she sees him swallow, and when he looks at her, there's a tightness around his eyes that was missing a minute ago.

"Erandur?"

He flinches at her timid tone, then collects himself (what in Oblivion for?), waits until her breaths return to normal, and replies:

"I'd like to at least learn what we're running from, if we're to be doing that tonight. You've said it yourself, we have time until Lilly gets here. What's this about, again?"

Mara's mercy!

"I've told you," she begins, confused. "They came to Raven Rock about...a week after you'd left. Got us on a ship, willy-nilly, escorted us here like dogs, and they're trying to compel me to..."

"Stick to your vow," he completes for her. "When you do not want to."

She gapes at him, uncomprehending.

"No, I do not want to! After all I've done to escape, to stay away, buried myself in that hovel of a manor—and not merely for me, but for Lilly and Ancano as well! And the general, the blasted emperor would have me re-enlisted, at their beck and call whenever something, no matter how minor, comes along and they require my help. I'd never be free again."

He hums, tilting his head.

"Even so, you did not strike me as _free_, when you wrote the letters. Those weren't the words of a free woman."

She can tell her cheeks are darkening with shame and anger.

"At least I wasn't on the walls of a fort," she grinds out, "foes circling on all sides. At least I wasn't forced to fight."

"You despise fighting so," he muses aloud, "yet when you are given the means to put an end to it, even temporarily, you rebuke them. Why?"

He doesn't know what he's talking about.

"How could I truly put an end to it? I wouldn't be able to _save_ anyone. The number of deaths would be the same or higher, they would merely occur faster."

Her voice lowers to a murmur, strength starting to fail her.

"They'll have me use the thu'um, Erandur. Be the one who quells the rebellion, unites all men under the Dragon banner. Drowns," she has to hold in a hiccup, "drowns the dissidents in fire, in one fell swoop."

"However, without that," he gently retorts, "the Empire would fall. You would leave us with our defences wide open, ripe for the Dominion to come and take us under their wing."

Despair, that encroaching beast, settles down next to her. Her heart welcomes it, almost with open arms, as it would something achingly familiar.

Strange, though, to feel its presence when her love is standing right here. He normally drives it so far away, without any effort.

She presses against him, and he accepts her.

"I can't go through it again," she utters into the crook of his shoulder. "I hate it as I do little else. Never fully grasped it. It's unhinged. Horrifying."

She's trembling like a leaf, she notices; his hold on her waist tightens in response.

"Similar to magic, only worse, and I abhor magic. It killed Father, and how many others? No weapon can compare. I cannot be responsible for that, for unleashing it upon them. I _cannot_, do you understand me?"

Like that, in each other's embrace, moments go by, and the light in the room dims. A cloud, presumably, passing in front of the sun.

She squirms, lifting her eyes to face him once more.

"They've called you here, haven't they? To convince me. Made sure you arrived in the nick of time."

He doesn't comment, doesn't react in any way. Returns her gaze, at a loss for words.

"How did they find out about...about us? Did you—"

A quick shake of his head.

"I would never betray you," he chokes out, and he sounds genuine, at the bare minimum.

A few beats of silence, then a tentative prodding.

"If there were any chance that the Stormcloaks would give up arms after you'd revealed to them the effects of your Shouts, their potential for destruction, would you take it? If their leader could be intimidated, would see reason..."

She barks a laugh.

"Ulfric? Reason? You haven't met the man. He's a fanatic. Dictator to the bone. Also," she throws at him absently, "he's learned the thu'um, too. His is not as powerful, to be fair—he's not the one with the prophecy."

She's beginning to poke fun at her circumstances, which is a clear indication she's reaching the end of her line.

That's what he seems to deduce, in any case, since he scans over her features, searching for...what?

"Clea, please. Try."

More hesitation.

"You were not born at the time of the Great War. You have no idea what it meant. What the Altmer had done to the men, the _boys_ I was asked to heal. What I see every time I glance in Ancano's direction. And you can prevent it from happening again. I...I would gi—"

Erandur hovers at the edge of a precipice. It's there, playing on his brow.

The look he sears into her does not resemble any she's gotten from him before, and it's as if lightning had gone off inside her head.

_No_. Don't you dare. Not like this.

Half an hour ago, she might have yelled at him, cursed him for shattering her heart with a single ill-chosen expression. At present, she wishes to conserve her energy.

"I'll think about it." She raises a hand. "I would appreciate being alone. Please."

It's simpler than Clea'd have reckoned, with solely books and word-of-mouth as frames of reference. He's not revealed his true nature, previously hidden beneath a beautiful façade. Not turned into a monster. Then again, he's not the villain of her father's tales.

Her blood still conforms to the exact colour of his eyes, presumably always will. Such habits do not develop in a day, after all, and neither are they so promptly discarded.

Hm, no. Standing there, in the doorway, he appears to her as he ever has. Maybe a bit more sad than usual.

* * *

Lilly enters their room, humming elatedly, and finds her on the floor, propped against the bed, staring at her own lap.

Excellent. Ancano's safe.

She rushes to the kitchens to fetch some tea, bombards her with queries she's unable to find satisfactory answers to, and, afterwards, removes her boots and tucks her in, drawing the covers over the both of them. Cradles her silent form, just like Clea did hers all those months ago, in the Rift, when they weren't sisters, but merely two frightened women in a tent at night.

She is tired this evening.

What will come in the morning will come. She will deal with it appropriately.

Might as well go to sleep while there's time.

* * *

**This will be continued - I have Part 8 (tentatively) in the works. I'm not sure when it will be fit for posting, though.**

**In the meantime, if you've enjoyed this AU I've put together, there are a few related bits and pieces already on my profile you can check out! **

**Thank you so, so much for reading!**


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